They (25 page)

The rest of it had been a blur for John. He didn’t remember much and still didn’t realize what had happened to him, or if any of it was simply a figment of his imagination. He thought he was tortured, that hot spikes were being burned into his flesh; he recalled figures standing above him and jabbing long sharp objects into his body as he writhed and screamed on the ground in excruciating pain. He thought at one time he awoke over a steaming pit of filth, his face held over a cauldron of human excretions. He felt a hand grip the back of his head firmly and push him into the steaming mess, feeling the texture of the warm wetness; lumpy, damp, mixing the stink of piss, vomit and shit. He felt it ooze into his nostrils and throat and he gagged. His stomach churned and he threw up again, the warm steaming mess joining the mixture in the bowl and he was forced to lap at it until he threw up again, he kept throwing up until his stomach muscles convulsed, wrenching his guts dry. He’d dropped to the floor in exhaustion, breathing heavily, and then he felt the searing pain as the red hot lances stabbed into his flesh again.

This continued for a long time. How long, John didn’t know. At one point, he woke up to see the group of people stripped naked, hovering over a lone nude figure on the floor. The figure was a female and very dead. Her chest had been cut open and the woman that had been flirting with him reached into the corpse’s chest and pulled out her heart. She took a bite out of it and then John felt strong hands grip his arms and herd him over to the body. He was pushed toward the corpse, a hand clutching a bloody hunk of meat was thrust in his face and before he passed out again he saw one of the men, his erection hard and sticking up stiffly, move the corpse’s buttocks up into position for penetration.

The next thing he remembered was being thrown out of a moving car. He hit the pavement hard and rolled toward the curb, covering his head with his arms. When he came to rest he scrambled to his feet. The car he was thrown from was already receding in the distance and he looked around. His clothes were on; his tie unknotted and hanging limply from his neck, shirt unbuttoned, his suit coat rumpled and dirty. He was in a ritzy neighborhood, probably somewhere near Bel Air where the party was held. For a moment he didn’t remember what he was doing there, but then suddenly the memory came screaming at him. He yelled and began running down the moonlit, quiet street.

The Beverly Hills police picked him up that night for disturbing the peace. But when he blurted his story out to them, they chuckled in disbelief. “There’s nothing wrong with you except you’re drunk as shit,” one of the cops told him. They’d put him in the drunk tank and he made bail the next day, called for a cab and came straight home. He tried calling the man he met at the social mixer, Paul.

It was answered on the third ring by a woman who spoke Spanish. John had hung up, redialed the number, and got the same woman. “Who is this?” she demanded, this time switching to English effortlessly.

With a shaking voice, John asked her: “Is this 965-3948?” He’d read the number carefully from the business card Paul had given him.

“Yes?” Deep suspicion in the woman’s voice.

John sighed. He’d dialed the right number. “I’d like to speak to Paul, please.”

“There’s nobody here named Paul.”

“But…” John had fumbled for the card again, verifying the number. “I called this number just yesterday and spoke to him. I’ve been calling this number for the past
three months
and have reached him here!”

“I’ve had this phone number for ten years,” the woman said, clearly in no mood for John. “You sound drunk.” She’d hung up on him.

John hadn’t been drunk, but getting there proved to be no problem. He’d driven to the liquor store and stocked up. He’d spent the next two days drinking. Then he called Mike.

Mike didn’t know what to make of John’s story. John swore by it, and when Mike stopped by John’s house the next morning he calmly asked him to take off his shirt. John glowered at Mike with red-rimmed eyes. “You don’t believe me.”

“I believe you,” Mike said. “I just want to see how badly hurt you are.”

John seemed to brood, as if he were ashamed of something. Then he muttered “oh hell,” and took off his shirt. “There’s nothing, see? I looked at myself the minute I got home. I don’t have any bruises, any wounds from what they did to me.”

He was right. John’s pudgy flesh was unmarked by bruises and didn’t bear the faintest hint of trauma except for a few scrapes that could have been caused from his tumbling from the car. In fact, the wounds that exhibited this were the only ones that matched John’s story.

“So there was nothing physical to support John’s story?” Vince asked mid-way through the narrative.

“None at all,” Mike said. He poured himself a second cup of iced coffee and took a sip. “I tried to take him back to the spot where he said the party was held, but he couldn’t even remember what house it was at. We ended up driving around in circles through Beverly Hills and Bel Air.”

“So what happened?” Vince asked.

What happened was John went downhill. He stopped his investigation. He told Mike that if he wanted to tackle it that he was more than welcome to. But as far as he was concerned, he was out of it. He gave Mike all his notes and the master key to the safe deposit box and turned his attention to drinking. He married again, meeting his second wife at a bar in Huntington Beach, and got divorced again two years later. By this time his business was gone, taken over by one of the lesser partners who took the reins when John began to devote more time to the bottle. John didn’t care. He took a job as a lawyer with another firm and tried to control his drinking. He sold his share in his former law office to his successor, not wanting to waste the time or drinking energy it would take to go to court. For the next ten years he made a meager living practicing law and drinking. He retired in 1994 and died in 1996 from liver failure.

“That’s when I decided to get into it,” Mike said. Frank remained sitting in the easy chair, sipping his iced coffee and listening to the story, not offering comments. “I made the decision at John’s funeral as a promise to him and Jesse. I told them I would find out who was behind this complete destruction of two beautiful lives.” He looked at Frank briefly, as if seeing his old friend Jesse in the younger man’s face, and then turned back to Vince. “I still keep in contact with Diane. In the years since her…warning, I guess you’d call it, she’s become increasingly religious. Jesse and Diane came from a Catholic Family, and Diane really got into her faith more and more. She’s pretty much a complete religious nut now. A real loony.”

Like my mother
, Vince thought.

“Not too long after John had his little incident, Diane got word from the Miami Police Department that Jesse had been found dead. He’d drank himself to death and was found in an alley in a bad section of town. He was identified through fingerprints, which turned up the arrest in San Francisco, along with a host of others through the years, mostly for vagrancy and public drunkenness. The body was shipped back to El Paso, and Diane said that when she and her sister Arlene viewed it they barely recognized him. He…” Mike licked his lips. “He’d really let himself go, to say the least.”

Vince nodded, visualizing what over fifteen years of continuous drinking and living on the streets would do to a man’s physical appearance. Not to mention what the mental breakdown could do as well.

Mike started his own investigation a year after John’s death. He did it discreetly. Retired from teaching and living quietly with Carol in Huntington Beach, California, the kids all out of the house and starting families and careers of their own, Mike first indulged in the pleasures of retired life. Waking up leisurely, catching up on his reading, traveling with Carol, visiting the kids. After a few months he began reading books on the occult and true crime. Carol didn’t object to the reading material at all—she was an avid Stephen King and Dean Koontz fan herself. Mike didn’t tell her his reasons for delving into such subject matter. As much as he loved his wife, he didn’t want to scare her. If she knew the truth, she would be mortified with fear.

Carol already knew some of the details. She couldn’t help but hear some of it when Jesse originally disappeared. Mike shielded her from the grisly aspects of it and told her that Gladys had left Jesse and taken their son Frank up to San Francisco. Jesse had started drinking and…she bought it. Hook, line and sinker. From then on, Carol simply assumed Jesse had turned into a deadbeat dad.

The first thing Mike did was to set up another identity. He found a book in an odd little bookstore in Hollywood called
How to Disappear Successfully
. This book gave detailed tips on dropping completely out of sight and avoiding creditors, former employers, friends, families, lovers. It also gave detailed information on how to hide from the IRS and the government, which was what Mike was especially interested in. If The Children of the Night were as sophisticated as he thought, they most likely had an intelligence system that ranked with the FBI’s. Mike read the book, and over the next six months he began setting up a second identity.

It was fairly easy. He set up a mailbox at Mail Boxes
Etc.
Then he answered an ad in the back of a magazine that promised authentic-looking state issued identification cards. The book suggested going through one of these services rather than a street hustler. Mike sent the firm his information and a photograph he had taken at a photo booth along with the requested fee. A month later he received a very authentic looking California Driver’s License identifying himself as David J. Connelly. Using the Connelly name, he was able to get a Social Security number from the Social Security Office, being careful to bring another set of documents that he had another outfit prepare for him certifying that he was a victim of amnesia. With no recollection of his full name or previous life, he needed to start over. Social Security provided him with a new number and he was on his way.

The next thing he did was to rent a small office in Huntington Beach. He bought an old desk and chair from a goodwill store and installed a phone in the building. And it was from this little office that he conducted all of his investigations into the group known as The Children of the Night.

“I also picked up a pretty nice tracking device that attaches to your phone line,” he explained. This tracking device alerted you if your phone was being tapped, or if the line was being traced. He also bought a computer and had a second line hooked up for a modem. He began doing his research on-line and by making phone calls when necessary.

“I found out a lot that first year,” he said. “I found out where Gladys and Tom live. I scoped the placed out myself. I obtained background information on them, found out that they’re living very legitimate, respectable lives on the outside. Tom is CEO of Metropolitan Inc., a large offshore company. Gladys is an executive at Digitalis, a computer hardware firm in Newport Beach. They live in Newport Beach in a gated community, Tom drives a Mercedes, and she drives a BMW. The perfect picture of a nice life, right?”

Vince nodded.

Mike found out everything about the companies they worked at. How many employees worked there, how long the companies had been in existence, their ranking in their respective industry, who the stockholders were. From there, Mike began investigating the corporate angle, keeping an eye peeled out for anything about the respective companies in the trade journals. As far as the information John had found, it didn’t help him much. The most John had been able to get on that was that somebody in the organization was very high up with a firm called Corporate Financial. Using that information, Mike researched Corporate Financial.

Because Mike wanted to assume as normal a profile to his wife as possible, he was only able to devote a few hours a week to his research. When he left the house for his office, he told Carol he was going to the library or the mall. He paid the rent and utilities from a checking account he opened under the David Connelly name. All bills came to the mailbox he had set up for David Connelly.

“Diane called me at the end of ’97 out of the blue, told me about Frank and where he was living,” Mike said. “I made a note of it, but didn’t contact him immediately.” He glanced at Frank and grinned. “He’s still a little pissed about me for this.”

“He thought I was like my fucking psycho bitch mother,” Frank said.

Vince couldn’t help but chuckle. Another thing he had in common with Frank; not only did they grow up together, they both hated their mothers.

“I didn’t want to take chances, that’s for sure,” Mike said. He took a sip of iced coffee and launched into the rest of it. His investigation of Corporate Financial led to a man on the board of directors who also sat on the board of a major computer firm as well as several other firms. He got the man’s name, ran it through the computer, and the background that spit out was promising indeed. It seemed to link a billionaire businessman named Samuel F. Garrison with the shadowy figure said to be the leader of The Children of the Night. Their backgrounds were similar. A trip to the library and an afternoon rifling through business journals yielded a few photographs of Mr. Garrison. When Mike finally did contact Frank and showed him the picture of Sam Garrison, Frank’s face had turned white.

“I checked Frank out before I contacted him,” Mike finished the long narrative. “I made double sure he wasn’t involved and it turned out he was having the dreams we spoke of earlier. He’d already started his own investigation, and with my help we tracked you down at his suggestion.”

“It was also around this time that a woman claiming to be my father’s wife contacted my aunt Diane,” Frank said from his spot on the easy chair. He sat up from his slouched position, leaning forward. “She claims she was married to my father in Miami, that they were alcoholics who spent a lot of time on the streets. She’d sobered up, found God, and tracked my aunt down. She told Diane that my dad had witnessed something…pretty bad in California back in the sixties. Even she never learned what it was. The most he ever told her was that he’d seen the Devil himself do vile things to infants, to women and children. She was very vague, but apparently felt compelled by my father’s story to believe it. She contacted Diane because she wanted to…offer belated condolences of his death, I suppose.” He chortled. “She said that whatever it was my dad had experienced in California, that’s what drove him to drink, what drove him out of his mind. She wanted to know what it was.”